


Rendering in Fiction

by ljs



Category: James Bond (Craig movies), Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Crossover, F/M, Gen, Humor, Victorian Sherlock Holmes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-10
Updated: 2018-05-10
Packaged: 2019-05-04 22:52:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 999
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14603469
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ljs/pseuds/ljs
Summary: Of fiction and truth, Victorian spies, "The Adventure of the Greek Interpreter," and the spite of one Dr John Watson."I give you this case under one condition: you cannot recount the truth of this office in your stories," Mycroft Holmes said in his chilliest manner, his elegant hands folded on his desk menacingly.Dr John Watson twitched his moustache in vexation. "Why not?"





	Rendering in Fiction

"I give you this case under one condition: you cannot recount the truth of this office in your stories," Mycroft Holmes said in his chilliest manner, his elegant hands folded on his desk menacingly.

Dr John Watson twitched his moustache in vexation. "Why not?"

"Other than questions of statecraft and secrecy, an appearance in one of your stories in _The Strand_ seems at best…vulgar," said Mycroft.

Sherlock Holmes, seated on the sofa in the Whitehall office, shot his elder brother a look of dislike. "My friend Dr Watson has featured me in a number of such adventures."

"Yes. I know." Mycroft managed to suggest utter distaste, even without moving his facial muscles.

"Darling, don't tease." This admonition came from the younger, dark-haired woman who entered the office just as Sherlock Holmes seemed prepared to clout his brother over the head with his handy meerschaum. The young woman went by the name of Miss Matheson in her service to the Crown, but she was in fact married to the elder Holmes.

Sherlock glared at his sister-in-law even as he sank back into the sofa. "He started it."

"And I am finishing it," Anthea said coolly, as she took her seat at the second desk in the room. "Now then, Mycroft dear, we have a new problem arising." 

"A question of a communique from the Americans," added another new arrival – Miss Eve Moneypenny, who also served with Miss Matheson in tracking matters of national interest for the Foreign and Home Offices, and in organizing field operatives under Mycroft's direction. She, a woman of Caribbean descent, had gone to Somerville College with Miss Matheson, and they had been brought into this shadowy office of intelligence work almost immediately thereafter. Eve handed Mycroft a mug of tea (black, no sugar) and sipped at her own before adding, "Code. No doubt referring to the ongoing economic crisis and the resulting concerns about the Bank of England."

Mycroft sighed. "Indeed. That will mean yet more uneasiness in the markets, I suspect."

Anthea and Eve gave each other speaking glances – the understatement in Mycroft's words amusing and infuriating in almost equal measure – before Anthea said, "In other words, we shan't have time to attend to this other small problem."

"'Small problem'? You said it was a matter of life or death," Sherlock said hotly. 

"Yes, but in this office we call that an ordinary Tuesday," Mycroft replied.

Anthea discreetly rolled her eyes at her husband's arrogance – at which Eve hid her laugh behind her tea --but said in a conciliatory tone, "Yes, Sherlock, I spoke too lightly. If you would care to question Mr Melas, the Greek interpreter in question—"

"May I record the case, at least?" interposed Watson.

"If you must," Mycroft said.

"I dashed well think I must. We have agreements to maintain," said Watson. Sherlock huffed in a melodramatic way, which could have been agreement or general hostility. Watson continued, "But how shall I render in fiction the source of this case?"

"Do you not make it up anyway?" Eve said.

 _"No,_ " said Watson and Sherlock in rather loud concert.

Mycroft opened his appointment book in a marked manner. "Well, then, write the beginning as you please, with a proper disguise of who and what we are. And we are extremely busy, brother mine, so if you and Dr Watson would like to begin your investigations—"

"We have the Greek interpreter in another Whitehall office," Eve said, as she rose. "I shall be happy to escort you." 

Sherlock, Watson, and Eve left – although in the corridor outside, Eve was intercepted by a runner with a telegram from Commander Bond, her field-agent currently deep in the Ottoman Empire, which would be a story for another time. In this moment, in a now quiet office, Mycroft sighed heavily, and held out his hand to his wife. "Should we not have referred the case to him? It's likely to be… messy."

Anthea came to his side, seating herself on the arm of his deskchair and leaning over to kiss his temple. Mycroft's arm came around her waist (since they were alone), and his long fingers teased at her thigh, strong underneath her sensible office suiting. "Sherlock was complaining of boredom yesterday, darling," she said in a matter-of-fact way.

Their gazes met. She knew how Mycroft took care of his difficult brother, and she knew the cost of that caring. It was not always an advantage. 

He sighed again. "Right as usual, my dear."

They kissed, there in the dimness of his office, before he pulled the lamp closer and opened his latest file on the American problem. "Shall we discuss the figures, then?"  
……………………………………………

Some months later, at a convivial office luncheon with Eve, Anthea opened the latest issue of _The Strand_ magazine. "'The Adventure of the Greek Interpreter,'" she read aloud. 

"Oh, that one," Eve said, her mouth full of muffin. After swallowing, she said, "So how did Dr Watson disguise us?"

Anthea skimmed the text, and as she read down the pages, her mouth thinned. "You and I are omitted. But my husband will _not_ be happy."

She turned the page toward Eve, who glimpsed the following, some ways down: _Mycroft Holmes was a much larger and stouter man than Sherlock. His body was absolutely corpulent, but—_ "Oh dear God." This was said reverently, in acknowledgement of the crime of fiction perpetrated on the page. 

"We'll never tell him," Anthea said.

"Tell me what?" said Mycroft, entering in his usual languid, long-legged way. He pitched his umbrella into the stand for that purpose and then leaned over to kiss his wife.

"Nothing," Anthea said, and slammed the magazine shut.

It didn't help, of course. Mycroft opened the magazine again, skimmed, and snarled in rage. But here the British Government (as he was sometimes known) was helpless.

The moral of the story, as he later said, was that when an author asked for help in creating a story, one ruddy well gave it to them.


End file.
